Smarty Mommies

July 29, 2014

My husband is a joke-repeater. While the
phrase may be unfamiliar, the idea is not, and you'll likely recognize it
before you're even finished reading the next sentence. A joke-repeater is
one who hears a funny thing someone else has just said in a group,
says it louder, and then gets all the credit for the hilariousness of the
joke. The decent thing about my husband and his terrible habit is that he
acknowledges that he's a joke-repeater and, when called on having
joke-repeated, will laugh at himself and give credit where credit is due.

"Ha ha, darling wife!," he'll jocularly
exclaim. "So I have joke-repeated your flawless and golden humor
again! I am a silly man rife with flaws, and I acknowledge that
joke-repeating is but one among many. How you love me after all these
years I'll never understand, and I am forever grateful for your continued
affections!" Then we make out.

And this acknowledgement is why I don't smother him
in his sleep after decades - DECADES! - of his joke-repeating.

Clint Edwards and the Washington Post don't
get off so easily.

On July 21, the Post published Edwards's
piece titled "I
blamed my wife for our messy house, I was wrong for so many reasons"
in its On Parenting section online. Truly, it is a benign little
self-congratulatory realization of the obvious fact that his wife's job as a
stay-at-home mother, just as his job as a professional writer, does not
automatically guarantee a magically clean house. It might even do some
couples some good because it follows Edwards's transformation from an entitled
critic ("Shortly after she became a stay-at-home mom, I started
getting really judgmental. I started looking at the state of the house and
thinking, 'You have one job! One job! To take care of the home.'") to an
enlightened and understanding partner ("I stopped looking at the dirty
dishes, assuming that they were evidence of Mel sitting around all day.
Instead, I got up myself and started washing the dishes. I realized that this
was not her mess, but our mess, and I started pitching in
more."). I imagine that this is not a transformation that many male
partners are not able to make as quickly or whole-heartedly, if at all.
So, for any change that this piece is able to promote, then I say thanks for
"pitching in."

But the content of the piece is not really it's
main problem or why it earned the inaugural OTPBS acknowledgement. The
story's main flaw is in who is telling it and why that teller's voice and
perspective is privileged enough to warrant publication. Every
stay-at-home parent, over 97% of which are women according to the US
census, has faced the choice that Edwards's wife, Mel faces: Whether to devote
time and energy to cleaning the house or raising the kids.
That overwhelmingly female percentage renders the story that Edwards
writes about stay-at-home mothers facing unfair and undue judgment for
having a messy home a woman's story. So why on earth was Edwards the one
telling it? And if the Post was eager to publish a story about
sexist perceptions of what constitutes women's work and men's work, and, worse,
what constitutes men's rights to the enjoyment of the fruits of what have been
traditionally women's labors, then why did they seek a man to tell that
story? Of all the women's voices heard in smaller venues -
conversations, parent's groups, online forums, blogs - telling the same exact
story that Edwards tells on his wife's behalf (To be fair, he does quote her
once in the story; chivalry is not dead!), why does Edwards's voice earn the
privilege of being amplified by the Post? It is sickening to
think that the Post assumed, correctly or incorrectly, that a male
writer was required to legitimatize and validate a woman's story, and yet it
appears that that was the unique intent of the piece. And, while I'm
grateful that Edwards did come to value his stay-at-home wife, and thereby all
stay-at-home parents, as more than a housekeeper, it is neither his story to
tell, nor his place to tell it. It just isn't his joke to repeat.

"Columbusing"
is a new term floating around that generally refers to white people
"discovering" something that has existed in other ethnic cultures for
ages. Perhaps a gendered corollary is required to accurately describe
what Edwards and the Post are doing in this piece. (Lovelacing perhaps?
The grammar isn't parallel, but I'll be damned if we call it Babbaging.).
Whichever name we apply to it, it is a prime example of the kind of Old-Timey
Patriarchal Bullshit to which we should all say "enough."

What you just saw, in case you're the kind to quickly scroll down to the pictures and captions instead of reading the actual words (in which case, why are you "reading" this blog, silly?), is David Trumble's satirical approach to criticizing the broad, flattening strokes with which Disney paints its heroines by applying such strokes to actual, real-life heroines. So, I Fucking Hate it, and you are meant to, too. What you're supposed to hate is Disney, but in this case Disney isn't the only villain. Trumble, although he has wonderful intentions of visually and wittily telling us all what we already know about Disney princesses (Does anyone over the age of 4 really think that they're unique and multifaceted role models?), instead winds up joining ranks with them and perpetuating their silliness. He intends to be satirical, as he eloquently writes in his explanation of the piece, but the piece as it stands alone merely reduces amazing, multidimensional, human women into bizarre caricatures of themselves. "Holocaust Princess" does not criticize Disney, but rather offends the viewer and earns Trumble a spiky seat in Hell.

Now, David Trumble does not know that he's just abundantly and jaggedly spiked his Hell-seat because his intentions, he says, are good. He seeks through this work to criticize the simplified version of female heroism peddled so successfully by the Disney Princess marketing empire. "The statement [he] wanted to make" with these cartoons "was that it makes no sense to put these real-life women into one limited template, so why then are we doing it to our fictitious heroines?" But, friends, that's not what his work actually does. After all, if what Disney does with fictional women is shitty, then how is the mere emulative application of this same shitty practice satirical? His theory might be well-intended, but his execution is wildly unsuccessful. Yes, his pieces anger me because of their diminution of powerful women, but they also anger me because they're bad at what they're trying to do.

After all, if this representation in and of itself isn't satirically criticizing the people who, in creating it, believe that it is just or at least justifiable...

NOT satirical, JUST racist bullshit. (Also, I just learned that this character's name is Chief Wahoo. CLEVELAND! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?)

... then how is this representation in and of itself satirically criticizing the people who, in creating its princess inspiration, believe that it is just or at least justifiable?

NOT satirical, JUST sexist bullshit.

Answer: It's not. What it is doing is imagining Rosa Parks's cleavage.

Now, perhaps Trumble could have made his point had he done something with his cartoons and then reported on their reception. For example, what if he had shown pictures of these princessifications' real-life counterparts to children and gotten their responses to their images and then compared these to responses to the princess versions of the real women? That would be interesting and enlightening to read. Or what if he included a diagrammed version of the ways in which he reduced each woman to a flat, vapid representation ("Subtract courage, experience, and grit; whittle waist; add manic smile and disproportionately bulbous eyes") along with the princessification? Or, simply, what if he asked people to identify the women he dishonors with his cartoons and then compared those recognition rates with the recognition rates of Disney princesses. Now that could be a telling criticism. Dammit, man, do ANYTHING with this work but ask me to look at these self-righteous, unthinking pieces of sexism identical to any other reduction of strong females and heroic female traits into caricatures and call it feminist satire.

September 24, 2013

So, in the quest to make the most of my time so that I can have more time to myself, by myself, and for myself, I'm doing another time management experiment. It's similar to the one I've already described on this here blog, but if that one can be called Billing Time for Me, then this one can be called Billing Time for Jesus. (And if you read those last four words in a cartoonish southern accent, then you are my people.)

I am thrilled and a little afraid of what awaits me in any potential afterlife to report that Jesus gets far less time in this plan than I do. Sorry, dude!

I'm forgiven, but only because of my dope rhymes.

In fact, in contrast to the 10 - 12 hours per week minimum I'm striving to spend on self-care, I'm going to cap my Christmas prep time at 10 hours total. Period. End of story. 10 hours, and then I drop the mic﻿ like a Smarty Mutha.

Sound Grinchy? Here's why:

I'M THE GRINCH, YO!

Ha, ha! Just kidding! I'm not the Grinch (although now you're trying to remember ever having seen me and the Grinch in the same room together, aren't you?). In fact, I'm going to cap the preparation because, thanks to my perfectionism and workhorsiness (NEOLOGISM FTW!), Christmas prep for me is a never-ending task whose adherence to the Law of Diminishing returns I test and am defeated by each year. The end result is that people enjoy the festive work I do as much as they would have enjoyed festive work requiring roughly 40% less effort on my part, and I hate Christmas. My ability to turn any joyous event into a forced march is staggering, and Christmas is really my time to let that little light shine. But not so this year, friends! This year I will not fling myself into bed at 7 pm on December 25th muttering "Thank Christ" in gratitude that His birthday is almost over! Oh, no! This year I will mutter "Thank Christ" in gratitude for His birthday being AWESOME and me having pleasantly and pleasurably half-assed my way through it.

Made 'em myself!

Now, I've already stated that I'm not the Grinch, so I can't very well act like one by refusing to celebrate. Thus, actual attendance of family Christmas events is not included in the 10 hour budget. And things I like aren't included, either, so decorating the tree with my loves and drinking cocoa in front of the fire and the tree aren't counted, either. But Christmas shopping? Consider yourself tallied! Holiday cooking? Every .6 hours marked! Addressing Christmas cards? Tick tock tick tock! Designing and ordering our traditional photo calendar? Consider that clock punched!

And 10 hours isn't much. Shoot, that isn't even one of my workdays if you don't count my stories-watchin', bonbon-eatin' time. Thus, I have to be ruthlessly efficient. For example, some folks already have presents from us ready to go for the plain, simple reason that I thought of something acceptable, bought it, and now I'm done. Sure, I might stumble across a different, more ideal gift between now and Christmas, and I will look that gift in the eyes and say "Tough Titties, gift! That's what you get for being late!" So, it's highly unlikely that anyone's getting a perfect present (honestly, it's unlikely that they ever were despite my best efforts to be valedictorian of gift-giving), but they will get the knowledge that I didn't stay up too late anxiously scouring the internet when I could have been sleeping or reading or writing or otherwise giving myself the gift of my own time.

And I'm not making anything. We have Target for that.

And I'm no one's Secret Santa. We have Regular Santa for that.

And I'm not filling my house with the aroma of freshly-baked pumpkin pies. We have Yankee Candle for that.

But I will be at SLB's firm's holiday party. Because they have an open bar for that.

Also a Renaissance Faire-themed buffet.

Because, Goddammit, I deserve to enjoy the season as much as anyone. Because I'm a person, too. And it's time to start acting like one.

10 hours. The anti-Malcolm Gladwell. BRING IT, FATHER CHRISTMAS. You're no match for a Smarty Mommy.﻿

September 11, 2013

Hello, friends!It’s
Ungodly O’Clock in the morning here at the beautiful Smarty Mommies west coast
hub, and I’m as happy as a clam to be up.Why?BECAUSE NO ONE ELSE IS.It’s part of this new thing I’m doing where I
actually, intentionally, purposefully make some time for myself within my own
life.

Do you know how much I hate myself for having written that
sentence?No?Then let me explain.

You know those minivans with the license plate holders that
read “Mom’s Taxi?”I traditionally have
hated those along with those who proudly hold their plates within them.Also, you know those articles in all mom
magazines (I’m looking at you, Family Circle!Pound it out, Redbook!High five, Parents!) about how mothers
forget their own needs in favor of taking care of the needs of everyone around
them?Yeah, FUCK those self-loathing
drones, right?Ha!Well, then fuck me because I’ve become one of
them.And the Mom’s Taxi plate holder
isn’t on my car, but I’m starting to understand the sentiment and the wry, sad
smile one must cry through when screwing it in to one’s bumper.Because, shit howdy, if it hasn’t gotten all
sad SAHM up in here this last summer.

She has no face. If you think this is a merit badge rather than a total tragedy, then this blog might not be for you.

It’s a frustrating, but simple equation.

SLB
works ungodly hours and is often not home in time to see the girls before
bed, let alone help with their care.

Traditionally,
we don’t hire sitters around here unless there’s an emergency or a very
special event.

I’m a
completion junkie with very high standards, and, with small children and
limited practical help, completion of many tasks and high standards are impossible
to come by.Although I understand
this, it generally doesn’t prevent me from white-knuckling through
attempts at flawless order and perfection as a rule.Oh, and I have OCD (not the cute thing
that people say when they like to color code their notes or hang their
clothes all facing the same way, but rather the ugly thing that sometimes
makes me Bat Shit Crazy).I suppose
you could guess at that from those last couple of sentences.

And KABOOM!I’m a
one-woman Mom Show with no time for myself at all.There are people who can handle that kind of
self-erasure from their lives, I assume, but I am not one of them.It was both a very satisfying summer in the
amount of time I was able to spend with both girls, and I was left repeating
the phrase “I have nothing.Oh, God, I
have nothing of my own,” in a breathless panic at the end of most days.Overly dramatic?Probably.Laughable in years to come?Maybe.Sustainable?Absolutely not, no, nuh-uh, not a goddamn
chance, nope.

So, I’m experimenting with following my husband’s time
management lead and “billing” my time (Oh, didn't I mention that I'm married to Mitch McDeere?).I
suppose that some would call this drawing up a time map, or just plain old
temporal budgeting, but the idea of billing is easy for me to understand.The idea is this:Every week I MUST spend 10 – 12 hours on
myself – on my own projects, goals, friends, values, and interests.So, I have to write.And I have to exercise.And I have to read things that are neither
parenting- nor teaching-related.And
this means, that, sometimes very painfully, I also have to leave things as they
are when my first impulse is to continue working into my own self-care
time.For example (it is post-bed-time
the next day as of this continued writing), right now if I look to my right
there is a little girl’s jacket on the floor near where I kicked off my
sandals.If I look to my left there is a
pile of Livy’s adorable correspondence that needs to be put into envelopes,
addressed, stamped, and mailed.I will
address neither of these things tonight because it is Writing Time, to be
followed by Ugly Yoga Time.

As if any yoga Abby McDeere did could be ugly...

So, it’s an experiment, This Thing I’m Doing, and subject to
change as it needs to.Maybe I won’t
feel so desperate now that Livy’s back in Pre-K 3 days a week and I can take
Maddsy to childcare at the gym to get more regular exercise in.And maybe Maddsy’s naps will lengthen into
something resembling an actual break for me during the day.But, for now, and to treat the high tension
wrought by the very un-lazy, crazy days of summer, I’m billin’ like a villain.

And you, readers?How
do you manage your time to include time for self-care and nurturing your own
interests?How do you take care of
yourself while hustling to take care of everything (and everyone) else?

September 8, 2013

Coconut oil. Is there anything better? What greater glue holds us together in Smartlandia than that non-greasy grease. It's like, if Left Eye came back from the dead and there was a TLC reunion tour, but with Left Eye as a zombie, then that might be better than coconut oil. Maybe.

My family is going as Zombie TLC this Halloween.

Many moons ago, I wrote about coconut oil and its awesomeness here. Due to the original's posts popularity, and the fact that coconut oil just won't stop, CAN'T STOP, I think an update is in order. The thing is, back then, I was just so naive. I was using coconut oil to wash my face and in the occasional shrimp saute. So innocent. Ignorant, really, of all of that coconut oil can do. Here is what I have subsequently learned. Indeed, what coconut oil has taught me.

1. Face Wash! Okay. I already knew that one. I put it on my face. Sorta rinse it off and pat dry. Voila. Moist, dewy skin and no moisturizer needed.

2. Deoderant! Seriously. You can rub it on your pits and you're good to go. Apparently there is something in coconut oil that actually works as an anti-persperant (science!). I have found it works better in the colder months, and it failed utterly during a weekend with the in-laws.

September 1, 2013

Hello, loyal readers! Oh, how we've missed you as we've done such glamorous summertime things as wipe poopy hineys, defend dissertations, and nurture both young children and raging Game of Thrones obsessions!

Hey, remember that time when my brilliant husband, in a fit of learned helplessness leading to clinically diagnosable ineptitude, couldn't figure out if a clear container of beans contained beans? Believe me, he does! Especially now that our good friends Katie and Ian Schempp have adopted the phrase "If it's beans, then it's beans" as a lengthier, snarkier version of "No duh" in their family. The dude half of this couple, Ian Schempp, even honored SLB and me with his own Shakespearean version of our dialogue that he delivered (with our original lines on butcher paper next to him) during a comedy performance this summer. When I first read it I laughed so hard that I drooled, blew a little snot out of my nose, and cried (but totally maintained bladder control - HIGH FIVE!). This dialogue is wonderful, and so is Ian for kindly allowing us to post his intentionally comedic version of our unintentionally comedic life here. So, without further ado, we proudly present:

If 'Tis Beans, Then 'Tis BeansSLB:
Good my lady Nina, dinnertime, upon its nimble catfeet, doth creep upon us quickly.
I hath pulled from our hale and hearty larder a container, but must enquire of
you as to its contents. Prithee, my dear, be these refried beans or be they
not?

Nina:
Dearest husband, I know not. Our creator has blessed thee with both orbs and reason.
Combinest thou these two great gifts and render thyself thy own judgement. If, perchance,
that which resideth in this container be beans, then ‘tis beans that thou holdest.

SLB: (earnestly) Yes, dear wife, that is the
question that presseth itself ‘gainst my brain presently.
Is this, the contents of this box unmarkéd,
beans?

Nina: I knowest
not, true love. I beest not in the larder, as thou art. I do sit here in this parlour,
aching to leave my body while my body doth ache;
battered by the tempest of elbows that the storm that we do call our daughter
has rained down upon my very face. I beseech thee, sir, takest up this
container once again. With thy fingers, play thou the part of Pandora and ope thy
box. If, when thou dost cast thy gaze upon the mystery that do reside within, a
word springs, Athenalike, from thy imagination, consider thou this word. Is
this word “beans”?
For if ‘tis “beans,” then lay thy money on beans, good sir, for most likely ‘tis beans.

SLB: ‘Sblood, woman! Vex me not with thy prattling of Greeks, ‘tis a simple answer that I seek! This be no Riddle of the Sphinx, no
Gordian Know to be split twain by thy twicesharpened tongue! Thou hast pearls
of wisdom in no short supply elsetimes, why clutch them now to thy breast? I
have but a single purpose left while still I draw breath, and that is this
simple divination: BE THESE BEANS OR NO?

Nina:
Thou addlebrained lackwit! Hast thou never an eye in your head? Pearls I may have,
but thou art a baker seeking bread, yet naming it jewels. So look, sirrah! Look
thou down and mark thy box of food! Fear it not, it is no grim spectre, no
black portent of death, no monstrous, gaping jaws that snarl and gnash.

(pause)

Or
is it something else that thou dost fear to see when thou peerst upon those perhapsbeans?

For
I too would hesitate, would quake in my very boots and my ashen visage stop the
tongues of the most boisterous of celebrants if I were to gaze into the very
depths of my own ignorance; if I did espy a goggleeyed,
lolltongued idiotpatein this beanmirror and only vaguely recognized it as my
own. But if thou lookst and only beans do meet thy eyes, then your purpose is
fulfilled! If beans it is, then ‘tis
beans!

(pause)

So
speak husband, if my instructions did sail past thee, a boat lost on the oceans
of thy brain, speak now and cast all doubts from my mind. (long pause)

August 23, 2013

7:00I roll out of bed and the kids quickly
follow.They have homemade waffles
for breakfast, which would make me feel like a super-mom if the waffles weren’t
reheated leftovers from the waffle extravaganza I had cooked for dinner the night
before.My own breakfast consists
entirely of bacon.

9:00We arrive at the local
playground.Only one other family
is there.The dad is
enthusiastically playing with his kids, which makes me wonder if his neck
tattoo says, “#1 Dad.”If it
doesn’t it, it should.
10:00We head to the grocery store,
where I openly bribe my children to stay in the cart, for the love of god.
11:00We arrive home.Audrey declares we will make birthday
cards for an upcoming birthday party.All of my inspired craft ideas are put aside for Audrey’s practical one.

12: 15I “cook” up a can of
Annie’s Organic O’s, which are really bloody expensive, so it follows that the
kids refuse to eat them, and instead both eat a lunch that consists entirely of
grapes.
12.45We head out for a car ride
so Bud can fall asleep for his nap.He will only nap in the stroller or the car.Non-parents will say, “That’s absurd!” and mumble something
about how their future offspring will nap enthusiastically and often, while
parent-types will nod their heads sagely and say, “I would charter a plane if
that’s what it took to get my kids to nap.”Then we just sit in the car.Audrey plays on the iPad.I overindulge in Facebook.

Mid nap Audrey starts making suspicious, bagpipe-like sounds. For a good
fifteen minutes, she repeatedly claims that she does not have to go potty, and
then suddenly she exclaims that actually, she has to go potty right this very
instant.We run inside, me holding
a bewildered Bud, and Audrey potties away.I pluck the kids back in the car, and Bud immediately goes
back to sleep.The napping in the
car thing is starting to sound a little weird, I admit.2:55In a moment that is almost cinematic in
timing, my daughter announces that she has peed in her car seat, but “it’s not
a big deal” while, at the same time, my husband calls to tell me he will be a
little late coming home because he has to stop at Staples and get a
planner.The thought of going to
Staples alone sounds so exciting and thrilling that I choke back tears of
jealousy and rage and manage to give him a begrudging, “Have fun,” which is the
exact opposite of what I hope he experiences.“May Staples be out of planners and all of ye highlighters
run dry!” is the mean little witchy spell I mentally cast.
3.15Coffee.Feeling a little less, uh, manic.

3.20Somebody has pooped or farted.I’ll need another cup of coffee before
I have the will power to discover who has done exactly what.

4:00Hubs comes home and I zip past in my
running clothes off for a jog, which, to a passerby, probably looks less
like a jog and more like fast lurch.And thus, Day
One of SAHM ends. I didn’t teach
my kids to count and we didn’t work on their letters, as I had planned. But Audrey did tell me that her poop
“looks like the letter U,” which just shows that experience is the best teacher
of all.

Fan Mail Gleefully Accepted!

smartymommies at gmail dot com

About Christina

Christina is perfecting the art of Feminist Housewifery while raising two vigorous little girls and snuggle-sparring with one alluringly cerebral husband. She misses her former life teaching English to squirrelly teenagers and finds herself embarrassingly weepy during back-to-school commercials every August. She doesn’t miss her attempt at being an academic much, except for all of the wild, unhindered library time that it afforded. She enjoys cooking, eating, reading, traveling, and nurturing minor obsessions with arcane subjects. Because she firmly believes in taking up as much space as is her due, at least one arm rest in every airplane on which Christina flies is colonized in her name. She is a huge fan of cephalopods, The Great Gatsby, and the phrase “Fuck that noise.” She uses the word “awesome” far too much but suspects that that is because it applies to her so strongly. She may suffer from occasional delusions of grandeur but considers these vital weapons against the challenges of being a woman in a patriarchal society.

About Danica

Danica spends her days finishing The Dissertation, which has been in its finishing stage longer than it was in its writing stage. Thanks to Facebook and hitting refresh on various blog friends, this process hasn’t been near so lonely or productive as she initially thought it would be. Her evenings, weekends, and occasional sick days are spent in the service of two really cute, if slightly ill-behaved kids. She got herself a handsome, younger husband, and suggests that anyone on the market for a husband should also go the younger, handsome route, as those characteristics can make marriage, an admittedly flawed institution, a little less so. Because of The Kids, The Husband, The Dissertation, and The Academic Job, Danica has almost successfully achieved a full annihilation of Self, but if she digs deep, she believes she likes food in large quantities, wine in even larger ones, and big books by big, dead, white men.